


Wanderlust

by gloriousmonsters



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloriousmonsters/pseuds/gloriousmonsters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dior, raised in peace, craves something that he cannot find in Tol Galen, and finds something like it in a Noldo wanderer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanderlust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fordofbruinen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fordofbruinen/gifts).



Perhaps it was because Beren and Lúthien had been wanderers that wanderlust ran strong in Dior’s veins. Perhaps it was because he had grown up hearing nothing but secondhand news; in Tol Galen life passed quite quietly. Perhaps, perhaps; but when he was almost sixteen and nobody could agree yet whether he was child or no (he grew as beautiful as an elf, but as swiftly as a human) Dior slipped away from his guardians and followed the Adurant river, carelessly assuring himself that he could find his way back by it as easily.

He hadn’t factored in almost drowning.

The river was cold despite the warm air of late summer, the depths kept chill by shadows; and it was deep in the bend he had reached, treacherous and swift. The fallen tree that had lain across the narrowest part was, he discovered, slippery with moss, and there was nobody to warn him against attempting to cross.

Luckily, there was someone to pull him out.

~

“That was foolish,” was the first thing he heard when he woke up, his head swimming and throat still aching a little from breathing water.

“I’m all right,” he croaked, pulling himself up on his elbow, and coughed to clear his throat completely. His hair was still wet; he hadn’t been unconscious for long. “I can swim, I just —”

“Acted like an idiot,” the voice said shortly. “I probably shouldn’t have saved you.”

Dior blinked a few times, trying to decide whether to be offended. Finally deciding that meeting someone who cared nothing for his well-being was a refreshing change from people who worried over it constantly, he pulled himself into a sitting position, brushing wet leaves from his shirt, and turned to face his rescuer.

His rescuer was currently shirtless, wringing out a dark tunic before laying it out on a stone. Dior felt his breath catch a little, watching him; he was an Elf, certainly, tall with piercing eyes; but he moved with less grace and more sharp purpose than Dior had seen an elf act before, reminding him instead of his father’s war-wary movements. Muscular arms, pale scars that streaked his body, a harsh face and mouth set expressionlessly — his rescuer was a warrior, no doubt of it.

Dior awkwardly got to his feet, clearing his throat. “Thank you,” he said cautiously. The elf didn’t look like he belonged to the Lindi, nor even the Sindar — was he a Noldo? Lúthien did not like to speak of what she and Beren had gone through, but even if he knew only one or two of the sons of Fëanor’s names, he knew that they were dangerous.

The elf glanced up at him, tone curt but not cruel. “Do not thank me. Think about saving yourself next time. I don’t make a habit of playing bodyguard to young Laquendi.”

He had a strong accent, Dior noted; definitely Noldo. But his words had affected him more.

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” he said sharply. “I thank you for helping me this once, but if it will make you think me weak, by all means never help me again!”

That made the elf pause, and raise his head; Dior swallowed hard as those piercing eyes were turned on him.

“Very well, then,” his rescuer finally said, and there was a touch of interest in his tone now. “What is your name?”

Dior hesitated, sucking on his teeth; would news of him gone outside his home? Probably not — in fact, most outside his home would think he was still a tiny child, growing by elvish standards, if they knew that Beren and Lúthien had a child at all. “Dior.”

“Caranthir,” the elf replied. He was looking at Dior with a bit more interest now. “Do you know of Ambarussa?”

Dior shook his head, and the motion set off a violent shiver. His drenching had left him chilled as shadows began to gather around them and the heat of the day fled; he looked longingly at the makings of a fire that lay nearby, obviously built by Caranthir.

Caranthir saw his glance, and Dior saw one of his eyebrows raise; was he angry, Dior wondered, or amused?

It seemed to be the latter, as his next question was asked in a kinder tone.

“Are you an enemy of the sons of Fëanor, Dior?”

Much as Dior would have liked to be brave beyond reason, answer with the truth and suffer the consequences, the chill of the evening and his curiosity won out. He shook his head, looking as innocent as he could.

“Then stay and help light the fire, and you can dry yourself at it,” Caranthir said, tilting his head towards the half-built tinder. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I’ll have to kill you if you’ve lied.”

~

Dior knew that he should have started for home the moment his clothes had dried and he was warm; he should be grateful that he had this chance to leave before something went wrong. But the fire he lit was comforting against the gathering chill and darkness of the night, and he found himself watching Caranthir more than he should. The Noldo seemed to have forgotten all about his shirt, which was dry (not that Dior was complaining), inspecting writing and symbols Dior only caught glimpses of on a sturdy sheet of parchment. He frowned, occasionally made notes, and it quickly became apparent to Dior that he was dead the the world for the next while, now that he had someone else to see to the fire.

So he stayed, knowing that he would have been called stupid, that his father would turn white in the face and his mother’s words go taut with anger if they knew what he was doing. There were fish that Caranthir seemed to have caught earlier that day tied in the river, in the shallow edge supported by a rock ledge that gave way to the deep waters not four feet out; Dior cooked them, watching Caranthir out of the corner of his eye and wondering what he was writing, and which of the sons of Fëanor he served. Perhaps Ambarussa, since he had been mentioned.

Finally the scent of the cooked fish seemed to reach Caranthir; he looked up from his parchment and blinked at Dior if he was not quite sure how he’d gotten there, even though they were now only a yard or so apart; he had been scooting closer to the fire as the light waned.

“You’re still here,” he said, his tone mildly surprised.

 _I shouldn’t be._ “Yes,” was all Dior replied aloud; but his heart thumped like the blow of a dulled sword against wood, knowing his foolishness.

And if he stayed; if he stayed, as he seemed to be doing, for the whole night, what would he accomplish? Poking at the embers, he studied Caranthir’s scars for a moment more before they vanished under his tunic, and found a strange thrill thinking of Caranthir’s blunt speech, of the risk he was taking.

It was like looking down at the long green-and-gold dappled drop from the crown of a tree, seeing the empty space between the trees as a path for a moment, fringed with green leaves and lit with a wild strange light; and feeling the pleasantly fearful tug in your stomach that beckoned you to step out into it, to fall.

Of course, if anyone saw him swinging a foot out into the emptiness, tempting fate, he was told off.

Perhaps there was something to be said, he thought, his eyes drawn to Caranthir again, for people who did not care particularly for your well-being.

 

~

 

That night, Dior could not sleep; the fading warmth of the banked fire made him shiver, and the stars high and cold above and the scent of smoke still lingering in the air made him feel wild. It was a restlessness that made his fingers drum against the ground and his heart beat as if it wanted him to run; not unlike his first wanderlust, but now he was craving something different.

But not, he acknowledged, too different. All his life his parents had spoke of how sweet peace was, but they had suffered great danger and hardship. Now Dior, raised in peace, craved danger, whether it be wandering alone or…

Caranthir shifted on his blanket, eyes flicking towards him as he stood up; as Dior had suspected, he was still awake.

“Leaving?” he asked, voice soft but not nonthreatening. “Or fetching someone?”

“Neither,” Dior said, his mouth dry; and he tried to think of all the things he’d heard those older than him say, asking each other to spend a night together so easily, the same people who would smile at him and treat him like a child, ruffle his hair instead of kissing him. His hands clenched; _he’s a Noldo, he thought with a spurt of impatience, he probably wouldn’t understand the ways the Lindi say it anyway_ so he reverted to universal language, dropping to his knees by Caranthir and bending down to clumsily kiss him.

Caranthir stiffened, and Dior could swear that he felt his face heat a little beneath his lips; but he pushed him back, thin fingers wrapping around Dior’s shoulders, and in the gloom Dior could see little but the glint of his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice expressionless.

“You don’t need to ask that,” Dior returned, knowing that his own face was turning scarlet.

He knew he was risking far too much; knew it in the excited patter of his heart, the nervous clench of his stomach, the shiver of heat in his thighs. But he could not bring himself to be remorseful, and definitely not to turn back; instead his body strained forward, and when Caranthir asked “How old are you?”, the expressionlessness of his voice vaguely stained with amusement and a budding interest, he answered “Eighty-seven,” almost without thinking, because that had been what someone told him he looked like only a week ago (before smiling at him fondly, and turning down his shy overture as if he were still a child, because he was so young by elvish standards and nobody seemed willing to look past that).

“You certainly seem to like making stupid decisions,” Caranthir murmured; but there was a hint of hunger in his voice now, and Dior cared only for that.

“Please,” he breathed, leaning his face into the hand that came up to cup it; and Caranthir laughed softly.

Dior was pinned to the ground before he realized he was being pulled down; Caranthir moved like a warrior, for all that he had seemed more interested in symbols and figures, and his touch was not gentle. Dior lay in shock for a moment or so, unused to the position, and Caranthir chuckled softly.

“Changed your mind?”

Absorbing the reality of the situation, the warmth of Caranthir’s skin and the giddy terror of being pinned beneath and the promise of finally, finally feeding the hunger churning within him, Dior gasped out, “No!” and reached up, tearing at Caranthir’s tunic. Caranthir gave a hiss of surprised breath, then a sharp back of laughter; his tunic slipped away, discarded in the darkness, and Dior blissfully ran his hands over the contours of his skin, tracing the outlines of raised scars and hard muscle.

“I am not gentle,” Caranthir said, his fingertips brushing against Dior’s face, as if he remembered how fragile he had looked in the day.

“I don’t care,” Dior replied, with as much fierceness as he could muster, and pulled Caranthir down to kiss him.

 

~

 

If Dior had mind to be worried, he would have been endlessly worried about the bite marks and suck-bruises that covered his neck and torso, the aches and pains he was likely acquiring. But his mind was a blank, his hands occupied with clinging to Caranthir’s thighs, his mouth with Caranthir’s cock.

Caranthir was still gasping instruction between his moans, and Dior followed it to the letter (suck, let his teeth barely graze it, use his tongue…) feeling maddened by the strange exhilaration of subjugation. Even when Caranthir let out a low moan and pulled his head up, fingers twisted harshly in his hair, and hissed “Turn,” he did not want to disobey; he was alive with lust, thrilled with being uncared for. Caranthir was not gentle, and Dior savored every bruise and bite.

He had been prepared, but still it felt strange for Caranthir to thrust within him; he keened beneath his breath at the intrusion, but his whimper was cut off shortly as Caranthir wrapped his hand around his cock.

“A-ah…” He did not know whether to call Caranthir by name. “Ca-”

“My lord,” Caranthir corrected him, breath harsh in his ear and cheek hot against the side of Dior’s head.

“My lord,” Dior whispered, knowing that to Caranthir he was nothing special, and feeling it send a warm jolt through his cock to think of it.

Caranthir did not draw it out much after that; arm wrapped around Dior, keeping him from falling forward to the forest floor, he moved in sharp, rough thrusts, his hand working out an awkward rhythm on Dior’s cock. Dior rocked back into the thrusts, feeling light-headed as the air went out of him in every sharp movement and the heat in his loins twisted and grew.

He came first, inexperienced as he was; gasping raggedly, hips rocking against Caranthir’s hands, weakness rushing through his limbs. Caranthir gave a sharp hiss and then adjusted his rhythm as Dior’s quickened movements threw it off, riding the change of pace that Dior set.

A few long moments after Dior came, he did as well; Dior supported himself on his elbows, panting breath stirring the grass, as Caranthir gave a low groan and his weight suddenly lay more heavily against Dior’s back. By the time he recovered, moving to the side and rolling to his back, Dior had almost caught his breath.

“Incredible,” he whispered shakily, talking to himself more than anyone; Caranthir gave a breathless laugh.

“You sound satisfied; don’t tell me this was your first time.”

Dior remained silent for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. Finally, shifting closer to Caranthir, he spoke.

“Would you have acted any differently if I had told you that?”

Caranthir shrugged; Dior could feel the motion. “I might have made an effort to not be as rough.”

It was Dior’s turn to laugh. “Then I am glad you didn’t know.”

 

~

 

The next morning, Dior managed to do one thing intelligently and was gone before the sunrise, searching for herbs to heal his wounds and an explanation for his absence that would satisfy his parents.

He was not to see Caranthir again until years had passed; until he knew that he was a son of Fëanor and not merely a servant; until a message was delivered by a dark-haired elf who looked at him incredulously, and whom he pretended not to recognize.

 _I could pull you from that throne,_ Caranthir’s furious eyes said. _I could rip the Silmaril from your throat and those rich clothes from your body — and those ridiculous braids from your hair, and I could take you so easily. You’re still just a boy pretending to be a king._

Dior swallowed hard, and reminded himself of Nimloth, of his people, and touched the cool Silmaril at his throat, composing himself. This was, after all, not the first time he had received violent or sexual thoughts — sometimes he almost missed the frustration of his younger years.

 _Say what you will, I am still the king_ , he returned silently, _and that was in the past, and you are grasping at straws. You hold no influence with me._

“I have no reply for the sons of Fëanor,” he said aloud, and hoped that his cold gaze could mask how trapped he felt by crown and braid and robe.

 

 


End file.
